Beast
by shakeitsalome
Summary: The language of those that had captured him was so different from his own. They used so many words to convey simple things. 'Beast' was one he knew and he scowled at the insinuation. What had he done to deserve their hatred? - Roman Reigns. Historical AU.


**A/N: YES another new story. It's a bit of a divergent from my usual fare but one I am excited to write. A few notations and warnings, though, before we get to the fun:**

**Warnings: Sex, sex, sex. Most consensual, some not. Bondage. Beatings. Bad guys, good guys. Very little romance is planned, so if that's your cup of tea, I apologize now.**

**Special thank you to those who've encouraged me to hurry up and post this. You know who you are. If you have any questions, feel free to PM or tweet me. I really don't bite despite the rumors you may have heard.**

Enjoy. :)

Chapter One

_What is man, and what mere beast – Robert Graves_

_London, England  
1813_

The fist pounding on the table reminded him of a drum. Steady, commanding, it captured his attention. Eyes on the floor, he thought of the ceremonial beats he had heard all his life. The thrum had been with him since birth. Each day had begun and ended with the rhythmic sound. Each of his accomplishments had been sounded out in ancient beatings. He had not heard them since being dragged across the sand.

They beat only in his heart now.

"Finally, we 'as the dangerous jungle beast. Twenty men, it took, to capture 'im!"

He listened to the barker's words but understood few. The language of those that had captured him was so different from his own. They used so many words to convey simple things. 'Beast' was one he knew and he scowled at the insinuation. What had he done to deserve their hatred?

Was it so horrible to defend one's home?

His fists clenched. The muscles in his arms began to tense, rattling the chains they had used to bind him. Three of their puny men were in charge of him. He knew that if he had to, he could dispose of them easily. However, he had learned on the ship that whips could be painful. When his skin had been flayed and his rage had taken over, he had been whipped again.

And, they had told him, he would be whipped every day until he learned his place.

Savage.

Beast.

Monster.

Slave.

"And now, if you'll all stand back… Bring 'im in!"

The sharp stick began poking him in the back. Knowing what would occur if he rebelled, he stepped forward. His walk was impeded by the chains around his ankles. The forged iron rattled and clattered as he ducked through the doorway.

He heard the gasps from those gathered. Staring out at them, he wanted to spit. They, dressed in fine clothes. The women with their powdered faces. The men with their shined shoes. Nostrils flaring, he narrowed his eyes.

A woman in the front gave a cry and slumped. Two men hastened to catch her.

"Aye, 'e is a brute, ain't he?" The barker sounded so happy. "What am I bid?"

The men began calling out numbers. The women held dainty bits of cloth to their noses.

As though he were a filthy animal. When they were the ones who lived in filth.

"Yes, yes, I have seven 'undred!"

"Eight!"

"Nine!"

They went on, shouting out. They reminded him of the market he had been carried through. Men and women shouting back and forth over rotting fruit and smelly fish.

He hated them. He hated them all.

"Two thousand!"

And he was the beast. What were they, these people that bought and sold souls?

The amount of men shouting out numbers dwindled until there were only two. A greying man in the front, who was important enough to warrant the only chair, and someone in the back that he could not make out.

Then, amid the murmuring, came a different voice.

"Ten thousand."

A woman.

The crowd's startled gasp was only a bit smaller than the one when he had been brought in. Feet shuffled, heads turned, voices whispered. From the back, they split into two, clearing the way.

The woman that moved forward was holding a walking stick. He watched her, confused yet again why the women in this strange land insisted on contorting their bodies. She lifted the walking stick and held it in both hands, stepping closer to him.

"You heard me, Colter. Ten thousand." Her voice was light, airy. She could be discussing the weather. Her gaze turned back to him and she smiled.

He remained still, aware of his handlers each drawing out their whips.

"My, you are a giant, aren't you?" she asked. "Kneel down so that I may have a better look at you."

The stick dug into his back. Fists clenched, he dropped to his knees.

"But—"

"Oh, do be quiet, Colter. We all know that no one will outbid me. Hastings can't afford to, and Harrison's wife won't let him." She stepped closer. "What's his name?"

"'E don't have one."

"Nonsense. Everyone has a name." Her shoes tapped against the floor as she rounded him. "The tattoo makes him look even more dangerous…" It was barely spoken, almost as though it were a thought that had slipped out. "How old are these marks on his back?"

"I…" The barker mopped his brow. "They were needed. He's not gentle—"

"How old are they?"

"They're not fresh, ma'am. 'Ad 'em when he got off the ship, 'e did. My men 'aven't 'ad to use the strap on 'im."

"I see. Yes, I think he'll do quite well. My man will have the bank notes brought 'round in the morning." She moved in front of him again. "Do you speak English?"

"Little," he answered.

"My grandmother always said that the less a man talks, the better. But I'm sure you'll learn." One finger touched his chin and he lifted his head. Her smile was not cruel. "Yes, you're perfect," she whispered.

"Ma'am—"

"I'll take him with me, Colter."

Colter looked relieved. "Yes, ma'am."

He rose, aware of how she watched him. Her smile returned. Tapping the walking stick against her palm, she turned and moved through the crowd. He watched them part for her, listening to the murmurs. The stick met his back again, the chains pulled. Instead of following her, the men led him the way he had come.

"Wonder why she wants him," the one in front muttered.

"Maybe her girls need a new toy." The man to his left laughed, pulling the chain tighter.

He blinked in the sunlight. After hours in the dim rooms of the large building the outdoors was a relief. Even if all he could see was the backs of other large buildings. Even if all he could smell was the damp, fetid aroma of unwashed bodies. He took a breath, longing for the warmth and sunshine of home. He craved the scent of flowers and fruits. He wanted the gentle breezes, the sound of rain splashing against leaves and rocks. He wished for freedom.

All he received was the sharp jab of a stick. The clinging cold of a dirty city that saw too little sunlight. The smell of human waste. The pain of knowing he would never be free again.

She was waiting beside a carriage. It was different from the cart he had been brought in on. Even beneath a clouded sky the painted surface gleamed. The door was open and his gaze rested on the symbol there. He did not know the meaning of the figures painted over blocks of red and blue.

A man waited with her, lips curled in disgust. Not much larger than her, he backed away as the chains rattled. One of the horses snorted; the carriage wobbled.

"You truly don't mean for him to ride with us?" the man asked.

"Of course I do." She aimed her walking stick at him, then at the handlers. "Take off the chains."

"Colter said we was to—"

"I said to remove the chains." Her eyes met his briefly, a silent question causing her eyebrows to rise. Slowly, he nodded. "He won't try anything. Hurry along, please, gentlemen."

They did so, the steel digging into his flesh. The sharp stick remained at his back, digging into one of the more painful marks that had been left by the lashings on the ship. He steeled himself against the pain, fists clenching. A booted foot pushed against his back and he stumbled forward, catching himself on the step leading into the carriage.

"Sister, you cannot—"

The thin man's words were drowned out by the jangling of the chains as the handlers left. Eyes on the interior of the carriage, he slowly pushed himself upright. He waited for the chains to return, for the stick to stab him again, for the crack of a whip.

"Go on," she said. When he remained still, she moved forward, one hand holding up her skirts as she stepped inside.

He watched her with narrowed eyes as she sat, her walking stick resting over her lap. Curling his fingers around the frame of the opening, he carefully stepped inside. He still waited for the chains, the stick, the whip. He received only a smile from her as he sat. Too aware of every bit of dirt and filth that covered his body, he looked at her. The space was too small. Too clean. Too foreign.

The door slammed shut, the carriage swayed. A whip slashed through the air and he flinched, bracing himself. The carriage lurched into motion. Across from him, she smiled again.

Tilting her head, she placed a hand to her chest. "Mistress Annabel." Her hand moved to her lap. "Do you have a name?"

Name. He thought of the many syllables that had been spoken at each ceremony. The beautiful sound of his mother's voice when she spoke to him. The melodious flow of his titles and names were too close to his heart for him to share. He refused to speak them. He refused to hear them in the strange voices of this strange land. Remaining silent, he looked to the dirty short pants he'd been forced to put on.

"Very well. You remind me of the sculptures of Roman gods. Mainly Neptune. That would be a silly name for you, however."

He looked up to find her staring at him. Her lips curved into a smile and she leaned forward, fingers resting on his knee.

"Roman," she proclaimed.

"Roman," he repeated.

"Yes." Her fingers moved upwards. Eyes meeting his again, she squeezed his thigh. "I paid a large sum for you, Roman. I think you'll find me agreeable. I hope you will be, too."

He hated the heat that stirred within him at her touch. But it had been so long, too long, since he had experienced gentle contact. Agreeable, she had said. Nodding, he felt his stomach clench when her hand remained on him.

"My girls are going to love you," she murmured. Her gaze dropped, a throaty laugh leaving her as she drew her hand away. "Even the most jaded of my clients are going to love you."

He understood nothing of what she said but focused on the way her lips formed the words. "Love?"

"Yes, Roman." She settled back, hands folded in her lap. "You'll be getting plenty of love."


End file.
